


our hands clasped so tight

by EmmaArthur (EchoBleu)



Series: our hands clasped so tight [1]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alex stayed, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Sign Language, Anxiety, Autistic Character, Autistic Michael Guerin, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, M/M, Malex-centric, Michael left Roswell, Noah is good, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, Use of AAC, With added disabilities, music therapy, rosa didn't die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoBleu/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: A man is sitting behind the piano, and he catches Michael's eyes immediately. He hasn't seen him in ten years, but it's one of the rare faces he'll never forget.“Alex,” Michael breathes in shock.Alex turns to him, and his eyes widen almost comically. He licks his lips several times, as if struggling with something, and opens his mouth.“Michael.” The sound barely qualifies as a whisper, and Michael reads it on his lips more than he hears it.Alex coughs and tries again. “Michael.” It's barely louder, and he winces like it hurts him.*A world where Michael left Roswell, and Alex didn't.
Relationships: Background Echo - Relationship, Background Maria/Rosa, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Series: our hands clasped so tight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716952
Comments: 138
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am with yet another AU! Hopefully, I'll get better at updating them regularly.
> 
> This one is very character-heavy, with plot taking a back seat. It's an exploration of Malex in a different setting. I hope you like it!

“Michael, you've gotta take better care of yourself!” 

Michael sticks his phone between his ear and his shoulder to manually lock his truck. “I know, Iz, I'm trying, okay?”

“Have you at least eaten something today?” his sister hassles him over the phone. “If you haven't, you're coming to the house for dinner, no argument!”

“I have,” Michael responds. “I grabbed a sandwich earlier. I'm doing what I can, Iz.”

“I know,” Isobel sighs. “Sorry. I'm just worried.”

“Look, I've got this music therapy thing the therapist recommended. I don't know if it's gonna be any good, but I'm going there now. So I have to go, okay?”

“Alright. Text me if you want to come over for dinner. You're always welcome.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Michael  hangs up the call and sticks his phone into his pocket, walking into the hospital. He wishes Roswell had some other place to hold therapy sessions. Being here always makes him tense and hyper-vigilant and he hates it.  Yet he comes once a month to see his psychiatrist, and now for this. Thankfully his regular therapist has her own office in town.

He quickly checks the floor and room number his therapist texted him again, and heads straight for the back of the building. The psychiatry ward is on the third floor, and it's a little less anxiety-inducing, without the constant buzzing of machines and sterilized walls. It feels more lived-in, somehow. The offices and waiting rooms have recently been painted in subdued shades of yellow and pink, it's almost welcoming.

Michael makes his way to a room at the very end of the corridor that he's never been in before. The open door says  _Group Therapy_ . Michael's left hand twinges, like a reminder.  He hears voices and takes a step back out of sight, checking his phone. He's perfectly on time, so he steels himself and walks in.

The room has a bunch of chairs organized in a circle at the center, taking up most of the small space.  Michael counts five people currently milling around and talking to each other. The back wall is made of  open  closets, filled with a bunch of musical instruments, and the corner holds a piano.

“Hello there, are you new?” 

Michael's attention snaps back to the young woman approaching him.  She's not much older than him, and he's pretty sure her face is familiar. Thrown off his game, h e nods curtly, working out the proper words in his head.

She holds out her hand with a welcoming smile. “I'm Rosa Ortecho, music and art therapist,” she says.

“Ortecho?” Michael frowns, at the same time as she says, “I feel like we know each other.”

“You're Liz Ortecho's sister?”

“Yes,” Rosa nods. “You know Liz?”

“I'm Michael Guerin. I was in her class in high school, and she's my brother's girlfriend,” Michael says. He finally shakes the hand she hasn't withdrawn, keeping his grip lax and short.

“Max is your brother? Roswell is a small town,” Rosa grins. “I was two years above you in school.”

Michael nods. “I came on N iamh Clarke's recommendation,” he says, trying to brin g them back to the topic at hand.

“Yes, she told me she was sending me someone. You can make yourself comfortable, we'll start in a few minutes.”

Michael wants to ask what he should expect, but he doesn't dare. Instead, he finds himself lost as she steps away. He can't sit down, not knowing how the seats will be arranged or if people have assigned seats, so he stays in place, hands in his pockets, trying to unobtrusively watch the people there. He's fairly sure he sticks out like a sore thumb.

Three people, a man and two women, are talking among themselves, and Michael doesn't feel comfortable listening in to their conversation, so he steps further away from them. He ends up close to the piano instead. A man is sitting behind it, and he catches Michael's eyes immediately.

The first reason is that he's rapidly signing something to Rosa, and Michael's eyes tend to stick to moving objects, like his hands. He's immediately curious, trying to remember the few signs he learned in the ASL elective he briefly took in college, before he actually looks at the man's face.

He hasn't seen it in ten years, but it's one of the rare faces he'll never forget.

“Alex,” Michael breathes in shock.

Alex turns to him, and his eyes widen almost comically. He licks his lips several times, as if struggling with something, and opens his mouth.

“Michael.” The sound barely qualifies as a whisper, and Michael reads it on his lips more than he hears it. Alex coughs and tries again. “Michael.” It's barely louder, and he winces like it hurts him.

M ichael takes two steps forward, until he's close enough to touch him, but he doesn't reach out.  It's been ten years. Ten years since he's last seen Alex, as Jesse Manes dragged him out of the toolshed behind his house by the collar, mangled hand cradled against his chest. Michael makes a fist with his left hand until it's painful.

And here Alex is, grown into himself, bangs of hair nearly falling into his eyes. He's lost the nose ring and the makeup, and he is instead wearing a flannel and a patterned scarf around his neck, but he looks so much like Michael remembers that it takes the breath out of him. “This is unexpected,” Michael says when he's recovered a bit. “It's been a long time.”

Alex nods, opens his mouth again, then shakes his head  in frustration . Michael frowns in confusion, remembering his signing earlier,  trying to connect it to the breathy, barely there voice, the heavy breathing . He's missing some key element. 

“You too know each other?” Rosa asks before either of them can do anything else. “Oh, right, if you were in school with Liz you'd know Alex. Of course.”

A lex signs something, then reaches down into a  guitar  bag  at his feet . He comes back up with a tablet,  opens its cover to reveal an integrated keyboard , and quickly starts typing on it.

Michael jumps when a synthetic voice comes out of the tablet's tiny speaker. “ Michael. It's been a while.”

“What is this?” he asks, lost.

Alex grimaces and types some more. “I can't speak, so I use this as my voice. Unless you know ASL?”

Michael pauses, then forces himself to get over the strangeness. “Not enough to hold a conversation,” he answers. “You can't speak? I mean−”

Alex bites his lip. As he hesitates, Rosa steps up. “I can translate if you prefer,” she offers to Alex. “Unless this is too private. In any case, we're going to start soon.”

Alex nods in thanks and signs more. “Give me two minutes to explain,” Rosa translates for Michael, even if it's obviously meant for her. “Sure, whatever you need,” she answers  after a breath . She signals Michael to take one of the chairs and  s he drags another over.

Alex starts signing rapidly. “We haven't seen each other since school,” first, for Rosa, then he turns to Michael. The delay in Rosa's translation makes it hard to follow, but Michael makes himself focus despite his confusion. “I had a throat injury ten years ago.  Speaking is painful and very tiring, so I sign or use AAC instead.”

“AAC?” Michael asks, because it seems like the least loaded question he can come up with.

Alex points to the tablet. “Alternative and Augmented Communication,” Rosa clarifies. “It's slow and I don't like the synthetic voice,” she translates again. “I like Rosa's voice better.”

Michael laughs along weakly. “Ten years ago…” he starts, hesitant.

Alex's head dips down immediately. “We can talk about that after the session, okay?” he signs. “Please.”

“Okay,” Michael nods.

“Good,” Rosa stands up. “Are you both okay with being here together?”

Alex nods without hesitation. Michael has a second of delay, but he follows suit. “I don't see why not,” he says for good measure. It's not completely true−Alex was part of an event in his life that he's hashed out more than once in therapy, and he doesn't think he could do that with him in the room, but they're not really here to talk, right? This is music therapy, not one-on-one sessions.

“Let's start, then,” Rosa says. She waves at the other three to sit down. “Alright, welcome everyone. You've all been recommended this group by your regular therapists, and this is the first session for all of us. I'm a certified music therapist, but this is new for me too, since I usually work one-on-one with adults.” She pauses, and looks at each of them, checking that everyone can hear and understand her fine. “Let me explain what we're going to try to do here. Music therapy can be many different things, as long as we use music to help you achieve your therapeutic goals. Listening to or making music can be a tool to access your emotions, to communicate or even to focus your mind. I opened this group specifically for people who play or have played an instrument or sing but otherwise you all have very different backgrounds, so I would like you to try to introduce yourself, alright? You don't need to give us your full history, but tell us about your relationship with music and your therapeutic goals. We'll work on those more in this session, but I want to know what you want to achieve. I'll start. My name is Rosa Ortecho, I'm a music and art therapist, I sing and play a number of instruments, but my favorite right now is the banjo. My goal here is to help you achieve yours, so I won't drag this out. Alex?”

Alex waves at her to wait and starts typing on his tablet. “Alex here is going to be my assistant,” Rosa explains  in the meantime . “He's not a therapist, but he's a great musician and we've been working together for a while.”

Alex looks back up and nods that he's ready, before tapping at his screen. “I'm Alex Manes,” the synthetic voice starts.  Michael is less rattled by it than before, so he takes a moment to appreciate how close to a fully human voice it is, though it doesn't sound like Alex used to. With a p ang of nostalgia that brings tears to his eyes, he remember Alex's beautiful singing voice. They spent days, out in the desert, singing and playing guitar. “I play the guitar and the piano, and dabble in other string instruments. I've been through my share of therapy, including Rosa's particular brand, but here I'm mostly going to assist her. And as you can see, I can't use my own voice to speak, so I sign or type.”

T he end of the speech shakes Michael out of his fascination with watching Alex, who is also signing it simultaneously. To assert that he prefers signing, Michael guesses, because the other three patients don't seem to know any more ASL than him. They each nod their understanding though, a little more enthusiastically than is really necessary.

Michael is almost facing Alex, but their configuration means he's sitting on the other side of R osa , so he's the last to introduce himself. It means that he has time to prepare what he wants to say and adapt it to what the others share, so he likes it that way. He tries to commit the other people's names−Jake, Fiona and Naisha−and their faces to memory, and that means he misses half of what they say about themselves.

“I'm Michael,” he stammers when his turn comes. “I, uh...I'm a physicist, but I'm kinda unemployed right now.” He hadn't really measured how hard it would be to do this in front of Alex. “My therapist thought I should try this because I used to be very music oriented before I hurt my hand,” he explains, waving his left hand to show the damage. He sees Alex's eyes widen, and he dips his head. “I played the guitar mostly, and it really helped me focus and quiet my mind, but I haven't been able to play in ten years or do any music beside shower singing and I miss it.”

“What's your main goal?” Rosa reminds him gently when he hesitates.

“Uh, I… Reducing anxiety and restlessness. And getting better at communication,” Michael falls back on his therapist's words.

Rosa doesn't call him out on it, her face infinitely patient. “Thank you. Alright, if you feel comfortable with it, I would like each of you to play or sing something. We're going to keep it light on the therapy side  today , and just play music and have fun. Alex or myself can  accompany you at the piano or the guitar.”

Michael begs to come last, distressed at the thought of singing in front of everyone−why the fuck is he even here? He embarrasses himself, stammering even more, and he wants to curl up on himself, but the company and the uncomfortable plastic chair won't let him. He digs his nails into his thighs instead, curls his hands into fists, repeat.

But then Fiona stands up and starts playing, a beautiful clarinet melody Michael doesn't know, and the music immediately helps. Alex gives her the harmonies at the piano, and Michael finds himself transfixed, watching his hands fly over the keys. His mind quiets down enough for his body to relax.

Alex's eyes briefly meet his when he stops playing and turns back toward the group, and he gives Michael a small smile.

Naisha takes the guitar next, and this time it's a song Michael knows. He thinks for a second about offering to  harmonize , but he just doesn't feel confident enough. By the time he has the right words in his head, it's already too late,  s o he just beats the time with his foot and sings along in his head. He needs to starts thinking about what he's going to sing−if he even manages to get anything out−but his mind is blank.

J ake sits down at the piano, and Michael starts truly panicking. Even the soft classical piece he can't name doesn't calm him down, as he scrambles for a song he knows well enough not to butcher completely.  His leg bouncing accelerates, losing the music beat completely.

Alex, who is now sitting by him, must sense his  distress,  because he waves discreetly to get his attention. Michael looks up at him.  _Okay?_ Alex mouths.

Michael shrugs, and forces his leg to still. He starts wringing his hands instead, almost against his will.

Alex looks down, types something on his tablet, and passes it over. Michael frowns, taking it.

 _Do you remember it?_ is written at the top of the screen. The bottom half is the jacket of the _I Will Follow You into the Dark_ single. Michael remembers. Alex sang it so many times, with him at the guitar, in the month they dated. He loved this song, and he made Michael love it just because of his beautiful voice. Michael has never been able to listen to a single recorded version of it since, because none of them has Alex's voice, but he remembers every word, every chord.

He nods, giving Alex back his tablet.

_ Sing it for me? _ Alex writes, and shows him the screen again.

Michael's throat chokes up.  _ You sure? _ he mouths.

Alex nods.

“Michael?” Rosa asks at the same moment. Michael realizes that Jake is done playing, and that he even applauded him without consciously noticing. He internally apologizes to the man for not paying an ounce of attention to his music.

“I'll sing,” Michael says hesitantly. “I'm going to be rusty, though.”

“That's fine,” Rosa smiles. “This isn't a concert.”

Michael nods and turns back to Alex, who has put down his tablet in favor of  his guitar.  _Ready when you are,_ his eyes say. Rather than standing, because he doesn't feel like he can handle that, Michael starts tapping the beat with his foot, trying to get into the song, and closes his eyes when Alex plays the first chords.

“ _Lover of mine, someday you will die…”_ he starts singing.

His voice is rusty and breaks too often, almost veering off keys a couple of times, but he pushes through.  By the time he gets to the bridge , he feels tears falling down his cheeks. He opens his eyes, blinking to clear his vision, and finds the same tears running down Alex's cheeks.

“ _The time for sleep is now_

_But it's nothing to cry about_

_ Cause we'll hold each other soon in the blackest of rooms. _ ”

Alex's chords are perfect, and he looks infinitely sad, head tilted to the side, leaning on the guitar.  They stare at each other through the rest of the song, openly crying. Michael barely makes it to the last line  without his voice breaking completely.

He doesn't even remember the people listening to them until, several moment after they've fallen silent, Rosa shifts in her seat. “Alright, we're going to stop here for today,” she says.  The others finally applaud, and Michael's eyes snap to t hem briefly, b efore he turns his head away from the group, embarrassed. Alex finally puts down the guitar and wipes at his eyes with his sleeves.

“Thank you,” he signs at Michael when he catches his eyes. It's one of the few signs Michael knows, and it sends him right back into the bottomless pit of emotions this somehow opened. He signs it back, too overwhelmed to speak.

“Are you alright?” Rosa asks. Michael realizes she's seen the others to the door and they're now alone. He's really unsettled, to be unable to focus on his surrounding to this level.

Alex nods with a small watery smile and sign s something Michael doesn't catch. “ Michael?” Rosa asks just as Alex also turns back to him.

Michael finds himself unable to make a noise, so he settles for nodding, drying his tears. “I'm good,” he finally says after swallowing a few times. “Sorry.”

“Don't apologize for crying,” Rosa says. “In my line of work, it's usually a good thing.”

“I should go.” Michael stands up and pats his pockets, finding his car keys and his wallet. “How do you−” he gestures vaguely.

“You'll get the bill through the hospital. It's all done online, you don't have to worry about it now,” Rosa answers his unspoken question.

“Okay. Then I'll−” he hesitates. He doesn't know what to do now. Leaving Alex without talking more feels weird, after they shared such an intense moment, but Alex might not want to talk, even if he said they would. And Rosa probably needs to give the room over to the next group or something.

Alex saves him from having to decide. His synthetic voice speaks up, as he signs along. “ We should go get coffee.”

“I'd like that,” Michael says. “What place do you like?”

“The hospital cafeteria is terrible,” Alex answers. “The Crashdown?”

“Alright. I can drive us over, or do you want me to follow your car?”

“You can drive.”

Alex finishes packing up his guitar and slips his tablet into the back pocket of the bag.

“I have to go fill some paperwork,” Rosa says, recognizing their wish to talk alone.

Michael watches Alex lean down and grab his back and a crutch he hadn't noticed on the floor before standing up. “What's with that?” he  frowns , nodding at the crutch.

Alex bites his lip. “Let's go talk,” he signs one-handed, and Rosa translates.  She looks like she doesn't know if she should intervene or not, but she doesn't say anything more.

“Okay,” Michael accepts, reigning in his fearful curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day! I'm also on [Tumblr](https://emma-arthur.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted the first chapter a little fast (and also didn't want to spoil you too much) so I'm going to pay my dues here. First, huge thanks to evening_spirit for handholding and helping me figure out some of the plot. My friends helped me make up a whole list of song Alex and Michael might both have liked as teenagers and still remember for the first chapter, and I'll Follow You Into The Dark just became self-evident for this story. It's also where the title is from. Finally, Alex's throat injury was somewhat inspired by aewriting's amazing story Nothing Stays The Same.
> 
> I meant to update sooner, but I'm having a very slow month and there was an event going on in the fandom. Anyway, here it is. I hope you like this chapter.

The Crashdown Café is busy, but not crowded when Alex and Michael walk in. Michael holds the door, and can't help observing the way Alex leans on his crutch as he passes by, favoring his right leg. Alex waves at Arturo Ortecho, the owner of the café, whom Michael only knows from afar−mostly because he's Liz's father.

“Alex!” Arturo says joyously. “How are you today, mijo?”

Alex signs his answers, but only with a few simple and slow signs, that Michael can follow along. He recognizes “hello” and “good”, then Alex gestures at Michael, himself and an empty booth at the back.

“Yes, of course, go sit. Here's a menu,” Arturo adds, handing it to Michael.

“Thank you,” Michael says.

“You're Max's brother, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael confirms, a little surprised that Arturo even recognized him. He hasn't been at the Crashdown much since coming back to Roswell, and only occasionally on his visits back home in the last ten years. Liz and Max have been having an on-off relationship for years, but it hasn't involved any family gatherings, so Michael has never formally met Liz's father and sister.

“Go on, I'll be with you in a minute,” Arturo waves him over. Alex is already sitting at the booth, leaning his guitar and his crutch against the back wall, by the kitchen door. Michael joins him and starts looking at the menu, if only to have something to do other than stare at Alex.

“What do you want to order?” he asks.

Alex sets his tablet down on the table. “Milkshake,” he types. Michael has to strain to hear the voice output, which is still set for the quieter therapy room. Alex grimaces and turns it up, but the tablet's tiny speaker struggles to cover the noise around them, and it makes an unpleasant high-pitched metallic sound.

“I can read the screen if you put it between us,” Michael offers. “It might be easier.”

Alex nods gratefully and angles the tablet so that Michael can see the screen. It's divided in two, with a currently blank display at the top and a number of buttons labeled with words and pictures at the bottom. The flat keyboard doubles as the tablet's cover. “The Milky-Way milkshake is great,” Alex types. “We can get fries if you want to eat something.”

It's only four p.m., but Michael is a little hungry. “Okay,” he says.

Arturo comes to take their order before they can talk about anything else. Alex spells “M-W” and makes another sign Michael doesn't recognize. “Milky-Way and curly fries,” Arturo checks. “And you?”

“Another Milky-Way,” Michael asks. “We'll share the fries?”

Alex nods in confirmation.

“Coming right up!” Arturo walks back to the kitchen to give out their orders.

Michael finds himself at a loss. He doesn't know how to ask Alex what he wants to know, and he doesn't know how to talk about himself any better.

Alex simply cuts to the chase. “I know you have questions,” he types. He must be used to answering questions about his disabilities, Michael realizes.

Disabilities. Phrasing it like this makes it all hit home. This is Alex. The same Alex Michael fell head over heels in love with in high school. What the hell happened? To him, to both of them? Michael's eyes fall down to the scars on his left hand.

Jesse Manes happened. To Michael, at least. Jesse Manes found them in the toolshed behind his house, and he choked his son and took a hammer to Michael's hand.

And Alex's throat was injured ten years ago.

Michael chases the sneaking suspicion out of his mind and starts elsewhere. “Your leg?” he asks. There's little point in pretending all he wants to ask Alex is what he does for a living, though he wants to know that too, eventually.

Alex bends down and taps his knuckles on his right shin, extended so Michael can see it under the table. It makes a metallic sound. A prosthesis, Michael understands. His leg was amputated.

Holy shit, has life spared him _anything_?

“Lost it below the knee,” Alex explains. “18 months ago.”

“How?” Michael asks.

“There was an accident on the Rez,” is all Alex answers. There's obviously more to the story, but Michael doesn't pry.

Arturo comes back with their milkshakes and fries, interrupting the conversation. He sets a glass of water and an extra straw on Alex's side, earning himself a smile and a thank you sign from Alex.

“Arturo only knows food signs,” Alex types, amused, when he walks away again. “Liz and Rosa learned to sign with me but he just picked it up along the way.”

“You come here often?” Michael asks, because it seems like the least loaded question he can think of.

“Yeah. I work from home, so it's good to get out.”

Alex types very fast, but it's still slower than speech. Michael has to consciously stop himself from speaking as soon as he's guessed where the sentence is going, and let him finish first.

“What do you do?” he asks.

“I freelance in IT consulting and programming.”

“You're a computer guy?” Michael raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn't have thought.”

Alex shrugs. “I had a lot of time on my hands after,” he waves to his throat. “Typing was one of the few things I could do.”

“Right,” Michael mutters, a little taken aback at his honesty. “Uh, can I ask−” he gestures, searching his words.

Alex nods before he needs to finish his question. He hesitates, sips his milkshake. “It's hard to talk about with you,” he types a little slower. “Sorry.”

Michael frowns, his dawning suspicion back at the forefront of his thoughts. “Why?”

“Because you were there,” Alex writes. He gestures to Michael's left hand, which is resting on the table, and Michael swallows.

“That day...your father−” he murmurs. “Fuck.”

Michael's memories of that day are strange and distorted by trauma. His first time with Alex, he has no trouble remembering. What happened after...Jesse Manes with his hammer, the rage inside him when he saw him choke his own son, and then _pain pain pain_ and… “Fuck,” Michael repeats. “He choked you.”

This was the last time he saw Alex, struggling to breathe and terrified. Jesse Manes bodily threw Michael out of the toolshed, and he hid in his truck until he'd drunk enough acetone to drive. Alex wasn't there a week later at graduation, and Michael assumed…he doesn't know what he assumed. Mostly that Alex didn't want to hear from him again.

Alex dips his head. “He went back to choking me after he threw you out,” he writes, shuddering.

“You don't have to tell me,” Michael mutters, seeing how Alex's hands are shaking on the keyboard. He's on the verge of a flashback himself, and he can't imagine what it must be like for Alex.

Alex closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths−as deep as he seems to be able to take, anyway, because they look painful. “You deserve to know,” he types more slowly.

“No,” Michael shakes his head. “I want to know, but you don't owe me anything.”

Alex's eyes go for his scarred hand again. “You can't play music anymore,” he writes. “Because of me.”

“No!” Michael surprises them both with his outburst. “Alex, it's not you fault! What your father did is not your fault!”

Alex's eyes widen. He looks around quickly, and Michael realizes that he's spoken so loud that Arturo is looking at them worriedly, along with several customers.

“Sorry,” he mutters, vaguely waving at them. “It's not your fault, Alex.”

Alex sighs, shakily bringing his straw to his mouth again. Their fries sit untouched. Michael hides his left hand in his lap and squeezes it with his right repeatedly, until his stiff fingers hurt. He can't bring himself to eat or drink anything right now.

“It didn't heal right,” Alex types.

Michael shrugs. “I didn't have money, and I didn't want to go back into the system.” And Max's brand of healing would have been far too suspicious, he adds in his head. “I bought a splint and did what I could to set the bones, but it wasn't enough.”

“I'm sorry,” Alex writes, genuine sadness on his face.

“No, _I'm_ sorry,” Michael says. “I didn't even try to check on you. I should have known he wouldn't just leave you alone.”

“You were hurt. It's okay, you couldn't have done anything.”

Michael bites his lip, still wringing his hands under the table. “Can you tell me what happened? Whatever you can, take your time.”

Alex nods. “My father left me in the shed after he beat me up. My throat quickly started swelling up and I couldn't breathe. I managed to make it into the house before I passed out. Jim Valenti was there and he found me.”

“Valenti? He was the sheriff, right?”

“Yes. He was working with my father on something. He called an ambulance and saved my life.” Alex stops typing for a moment to cough. Michael is so tense that he almost wants to rush him, to get the whole story out of him faster. He forces himself to sit back and drink, but he can't enjoy the milkshake.

“The paramedics had to do an emergency intubation, but my throat was so swollen that it only did more damage. I was on a respirator for weeks and had several surgeries, but there was too much nerve damage and scarring to get my voice back.” Alex tugs on his scarf to show Michael the scars running down the length of his throat. “I can speak a little, but it hurts too much to be worth it.”

“I−that's−a lot,” Michael stammers. “Wow. I...I thought about you a lot in the last ten years, about us, but I never imagined−” He gestures vaguely, embarrassed. He just doesn't know what to say. It's such a shock that his brain hasn't processed it, not really, and probably won't for hours, maybe days.

He left to lick his wounds, after Jesse Manes threw him out, and Alex almost died. And he never knew about it. He's been living for ten years thinking that Alex just went on with his life far away from him, maybe left Roswell like he wanted to. Not this.

He realizes Alex is trying to get his attention by waving his hands in front of his face. “Sorry,” Michael blinks back to the present. Alex points to the screen, where he's already written something. “It's okay. It's probably better this way.”

“I abandoned you!”

Alex shakes his head vigorously. “You would have gotten caught into the fallout. I didn't want that.”

“The fallout?” Michael frowns. “With your father? What happened with him?”

“It was clear that I'd been choked,” Alex types. “Jim already suspected about the abuse, so he arrested him. The trial was really long and brutal but he went to prison.”

“You testified against him?”

Alex nods. “Once I was able to, I wrote down everything he did to me that I could remember. My brothers testified too. Jim almost lost his job to it but my father was eventually convicted.”

“He's still in prison?” Michael asks.

Alex shakes his head. “Dead.”

“Oh. Good,” Michael says firmly.

Alex looks up at him in surprise and smiles. Michael smiles back. It's a strange moment of complicity, to celebrate the death of a monster. They both look away again awkwardly.

Alex's hands have stopped shaking. He takes a curly fry from the plate and dips it into his milkshake.

“Ew!” Michael exclaims as he pops it into his mouth. “That is _wrong_.”

Alex takes the time to chew and swallow before he answers, even though he doesn't need to have his mouth empty. “It's the best! You should try.”

“Nope,” Michael refuses, eating his own fry dry. “No way.”

“You don't know what you're missing,” Alex writes, shrugging.

Michael leans back against the padded seat of the booth, relaxing a little. He hadn't realized how tense he was. The stress of meeting new people at therapy, the surprise of seeing Alex and the hard conversation they've just had, it's a lot for one day. That's not even counting the emotions that overwhelmed him while singing. He closes his eyes for a moment, exhausted.

He still can't believe it. Finding Alex again, after all this time, but overall learning what happened to him. It seems impossible, unreal.

Sometimes he forgets that these kinds of things can happen to other people. He, Max and Isobel, and more recently Noah, tend to live in a bubble, untouched by human things. They try to integrate, to live in this world, but Michael has always felt a little detached, remote from the humans. Every human, except for Alex.

Their connection is still, to this day, the most intense Michael has ever experienced. He's like a magnet, a center of gravity Michael can't help orbiting around. Even now, Michael could barely take his eyes off him during therapy, and now he can feel his presence so strongly he feels a little choked up.

This Alex isn't the teenager Michael loved so much ten years ago, though. He's changed, in ways Michael can't quite comprehend yet. It's not just the voice, or the leg. It's hard to pinpoint exactly, but Alex has _grown_ , perhaps more than Michael has. He has shadows in his eyes, but he doesn't curl up on himself like he used to, trying to take up as little space as possible. This is a man who has been free from his father, from his abuser, for years and who has worked on his demons.

Alex observes him back. Michael feels hot and breathless under his gaze. He feels _seen_ in a way he never has been before.

The moment doesn't last. Alex eats another fry, then looks down at his keyboard. “Tell me about you,” he types.

Michael bites his lip. Alex just told him so many deeply personal things, he feels like he needs to reciprocate. But the shame is overwhelming, too. He wrings his hands together in his lap and looks down at the table.

“I'm...not doing great right now,” he says slowly, choosing his words. “When I left Roswell, I had a full scholarship to UNM. I did my undergrad in three years, then enrolled in a graduate program and finished my PhD, but...I don't know what happened, really. I wanted to be worthy of the trust of my supervisors, to do great research, and I burned the candle at both ends. I put so much work into it, and then after I finally defended my thesis, I couldn't find a job. Academia can be brutal. And I crashed.”

“Burnout?” Alex asks.

“Yeah. Or something like that. I had no money, so I came back to Roswell and crashed on my sister's couch for a while. I just...I was exhausted all the time, I couldn't go out, I was overwhelmed with anxiety. Isobel made me get a therapist. She was doing so much for me that I couldn't refuse, so I went.”

“Did it help?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “A lot. That's why I'm trying this music therapy thing, too. I'm better, but I'm not...I'm not there yet. I'm not ready to start looking for a real job again, or move back to the city, you know?”

Alex nods. “What are you doing in the meantime?” he writes.

“You remember that I used to work at the junkyard? I'm still pretty good with my hands, and Sanders isn't getting any younger, so he lets me pick up jobs for a cut. It's enough to get by, for now.”

“Where do you live?”

“I didn't want to overstay my welcome at Isobel's, but she had an old Airstream I fixed up for her over one summer years ago. It's at the junkyard now, Sanders is letting me stay for free.”

Alex just nods. Michael doesn't know if he's saving his words because typing is harder than talking, or if he simply doesn't want to say more, but it's refreshing. He doesn't need any more “it's a shame”'s or reassurances.

“Rosa is good at what she does,” Alex writes instead. “She helped me a lot.”

“That's what I've been told,” Michael smiles. “But of course, I didn't expect to find you there.”

Alex gives a little silent laugh. “Me neither.”

“But I think it's a good thing?” he continues after Michael is silent for a minute. The written punctuation conveys his hesitation as much as his face does.

Michael opens his mouth, and closes it. Is it good, seeing Alex? That doesn't seem to be the right word. This is so much more intense, unexpected and terrifying and incredible and crushing and beautiful. Complicated. “Yes, good,” he nods.

“Do you want to,” Alex starts typing, then he hesitates. “see each other again? Outside of therapy. If you keep coming.”

“Today has been...a lot,” Michael admits.

Alex nods in agreement.

“But if you give me your number, maybe we can text? I don't want to let another ten years go.”

Alex simply slides his phone toward Michael, a new contact page already open. Michael quickly types in his number. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Alex signs, taking his phone back with the other hand. Michael's phone buzzes in his pocket and he looks down to see a text from an unknown number with a guitar emoji. He smiles, suddenly a little teary.

“That song−” he starts. He doesn't have a word for all the emotions it made him feel. “It was something.”

Alex meets his eyes, the same intensity reflected in them. “It was beautiful,” he types. He does it without looking down, but Michael has to tear his eyes away to read. “Healing,” Alex adds.

“Yeah,” Michael answers, for lack of something better to say.

“I think we should go,” Alex writes, regretfully. “I need to move. You need space.”

Michael gives him a surprised look, and realizes that he's right. He's been wrapped up in Alex for a while, but the busy diner around them is getting to him, the noise making him restless. Alex digs into his thigh, cramped in the small booth.

“Okay,” Michael nods. He digs out his wallet at the same time as Alex, and they silently agree to each pay half. It's easier than arguing over it.

They don't talk much during the drive back to the hospital. Alex has switched his voice output back on, but they're both tired and pensive. Michael pulls up as close as possible to the handicap parking space Alex's car is on and walks there with him. Separating now is weird. They've only just found each other.

Alex doesn't take out his tablet again as he turns to Michael, but he signs instead. “Can I hug you?” It's evocative enough that Michael understands easily.

He doesn't usually like physical contact with anyone else than Isobel, but there is still the ghost of their teenage relationship, the huge magnetic pull that Michael thinks they both feel. He barely hesitates before opening his arms.

Alex's hug is hesitant but tight and it strangely feels like coming home. Michael has to force himself to pull away. “I'll text you,” he promises.

Alex nods, looks away and climbs into his car, throwing his crutch onto the passenger seat. Michael makes himself walk back to his car, but he just stares at the wheel for a long while before he can pull himself together enough to drive.

_It was really nice to see you today._ Alex's text comes in the evening, when Michael is sitting on his bed in the Airstream, staring into space. He's been useless for the rest of the day, his mind too scattered to focus on anything.

_You too_ , he replies. After an hesitation, he adds a blue heart emoji.

Alex sends a black heart back.

On an impulse, Michael takes his laptop out of sleep mode and pulls up a search page. _ASL classes Roswell NM_ , he types into the bar. If nothing else, he has time on his hands these days. He might as well put it to good use.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to update much sooner, but it's been a really slow month. The outside world and the show+fandom blowout got to me. But here is chapter 3! I also posted a little snippet related to this fic, [the hint of a spark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828839), which is Alex and Michael's initial reunion from Alex's point of view.
> 
> Huge thanks to brightloveee and thepredatorywasp for their help with this chapter, and as always to evening_spirit for everything, but especially for helping me plot out this fic :)

Like every time since h is second session, Michael spends the drive to therapy thinking up the thing they will talk about first. An hour is not long, and he might as well make the most of it. He takes off his hat in the waiting room and gives his customary nod to Niamh when she comes to get him.

“The other day, I learned that the man who did this,” Michael waves his left hand, “went to jail for abuse.” He drops down onto his usual chair. It's not even awkward anymore. He's learned to drop the shields around Niamh, stop trying to meet expectations she doesn't have.

“For what he did to you?” his therapist asks.

“No, for what he did to Alex after that.”

Michael closes his eyes. They've talked about that day before, many times,  and yet his gut churns every time he has to put words on it . “I saw Alex,” he adds. “At music therapy.” He opens his eyes again just to gauge Niamh's  reaction. 

“Really? You haven't seen him since high school, right?”

“Yeah,” Michael shrugs. “Turns out Rosa Ortecho, the therapist, is one of his old friends. He's helping her with the music.”

“That's...quite the development,” Niamh blinks. “So you've talked to him?”

Michael bites his lip and recounts his conversation with Alex  at the Crashdown , slowly.  It's been days, but he's still replaying it over and over in his mind. There's so much to unpack, and not for the first time, he's thankful Isobel made him get himself a therapist for that. It's been too much on his own.

Halfway through, he finds himself in tears. He cries too often, these days.  He hadn't completely realized how much seeing Alex again affected him, even though it  ha s made him useless all week.

“What's hitting you this hard?” Niamh asks.

“I'm not sure,” Michael hesitates. “That it's been ten years and I never knew? Alex's father hurt him so badly basically under my nose and I never knew anything about it. He almost died.”

“But he didn't die.”

“No. But...his voice...he had such a beautiful voice. He loved singing.”

“So he lost something important to him, and so did you.”

“My hand, yes. Playing the guitar. But, I don't know, it seems so little, in the face of what Alex went through, how...impaired he still is, I guess.”

“He seems to be doing well, though.”

Michael thinks about it. “Yeah. I mean, we didn't really talk long enough to really know, but it looks that way.”

“And you could still play music together, even though it was different.”

Michael nods slowly. “It was…” He's tearing up again. Just the thought of the song is enough, and isn't that a testament of his emotional state. “It was incredible. Like we were...connected.”

“Even after ten years?”

“I guess the history there is so strong that it makes up for how little time we had. I never forgot him. I don't think I ever will.”

“And do you want to keep seeing him?” Niamh asks.

“Yeah, I think so. It's all still a...shock, right now, but I don't want to lose him again.”

“I think it could be a good thing,” Niamh nods. “The two of you shared a deep trauma, but you could help each other heal from it, too. If that's what he wants as well.”

“He seemed willing, at least,” Michael says. “I guess we'll see how it goes.”

“It might bring up emotions you haven't been prepared to deal with until now, though.”

Michael chuckles. “I'm pretty sure it already has. But, uh, I want to. Now that I've seen him, I can't stop thinking about him. It's not just the...memories, or even the attraction, though that's definitely still there.  I want to  _know_ him. I don't know if that makes sense.”

“It does.”

“It all made me think about my past again,” Michael sighs. His shitty childhood is not his favorite conversation subject, but he's not in therapy for nothing. “About Alex's father, but also about the rest. What he did to my hand was just the end of a long string of…”

“Abuse,” Niamh finishes for him when he hesitates. Michael nods. He still has a hard time using that word.

“Abuse,” he repeats dutifully, knowing Niamh's rules. “I still wonder if I got really unlucky with my foster placements or if I was placed there because I was a problem child.”

“There's no such thing as a problem child, and it's outrageous that any professional dealing with children still operates on those beliefs,” Niamh says. “You were not a problem, Michael.”

“But I was always different from the other kids. It was obvious even when Isobel and Max got adopted.” Michael pauses. “Isobel and Noah have been trying to find information about where we come from for a while. You know, DNA tests, records, that kind of thing.” He can only give his therapist a heavily edited version of the truth, but he's well used to navigating the lies. As it turns out, there is very little he actually has to lie about.

“What do you think about that?”

Michael shrugs. “I don't know. I hoped for so long that someone would come for me, and when they never did, I just...gave up. I didn't even want to hear about it for a long time. But now, I wonder if it would tell me more about...me. I don't believe we have family somewhere that's waiting for us, not anymore, but maybe knowing where I come from would, I don't know, help.”

“Would you like to do your own research?” Niamh asks. “Or do you simply want to know if they find anything?”

“I would barely know where to start,” Michael says. “I don't know if I want to dig into it myself. I don't know if I have that kind of energy right now.”

“So it could be something to keep in mind for later?”

“Later when?” Michael laughs darkly. “When I'm all better with a great job and 2.5 children?”

Niamh doesn't rise to his sarcasm at all, and gives him a calm look. “When you have a little more space in your mind to deal with it,” she says.

“Right,” Michael sighs. “Right now, it feels like it's never going to happen.”

“And yet you're making progress. I know it's hard to see, but you were in a much darker place just a few months ago.”

*

“Michael, you have to come to the reunion!” Isobel exclaims at dinner two days later, annoyance tainting her voice as Michael rolls his eyes. Their ten years high school reunion is tomorrow, and Isobel has been harping on about it for weeks.

“What am I going to do there, Isobel?” he asks. “Tell random people who never cared about me that I'm unemployed and a failure?”

“You're not a failure, Michael,” Noah interferes before Isobel can. Michael turns his eyes to him in surprise. He expected empty reassurances from his sister, but Noah's quiet, confident tone is different. “You made it through a PhD when everything was against you. No one can blame you for needing a little rest.”

Michael swallows back his gratefulness−though he hopes to shows a little in his gaze−and huffs. “It's been nearly a year. It's not exactly a 'little rest' anymore.”

“You'll find your footing again, Michael,” Isobel says kindly. “And it's okay if it's not in academia. Now will you come? I need you to install the projector and the lights.”

“Oh, so now it's a job? Do I get paid at least?”

“Usual rate,” Isobel shrugs. “If that's what it take to get you to come.”

“Fine,” Michael grumbles. It's not the first time Isobel pulls this trick to get him to participate in one of her events, but at least usually Noah is also there, and it's not a room full of people Michael used to know and never wants to see again. Although…

He takes out his phone discreetly as both Isobel and Noah stand up to put away the dishes and make place for dessert, and sends off a quick text. _Are you coming to the reunion?_

_Not sure yet. Are you?_ Alex answers a minute later. Isobel frowns when Michael immediately looks at his phone when it buzzes, but he ignores her. 

_Same_ , he fires off.  He glances at Isobel again to make sure that she won't get angry, and composes a longer answer.  _Isobel wants me to. If you feel like it, it would be nice to have a familiar face._

“Sorry,” he says aloud.

“Is that Alex?” Isobel asks. Michael told her about music therapy, at least what he felt comfortable sharing. He never told his siblings about dating Alex back in high school, or the truth about what happened to his hand, so as far as she's concerned he's just a friend Michael hasn't seen in ten years.

“Yeah,” Michael nods. “Just asking him if he's coming to the reunion.”

“Is he?”

Michael looks back at his phone.  _Technically everyone will be a familiar face,_ Alex sent.  _I'll come. We can hide from everyone in a broom closet, maybe._

“He's coming,” Michael snorts. _Are you propositioning me?_

_If I was going to do that, I'd offer something better than a school broom closet. Do you know how many student have sex in those?_

In just under a week, they've gone from stilted, awkward texts to joking around freely. Michael wonders how that will translate in person. He's not nearly as smooth with his words when he has to say them aloud, and the one ASL lesson he's been to so far won't go far toward making communication with Alex easier.

_Ew,_ he answers.  _I wish I didn't._

_Regretting your wild youth?_

“You know we're still here, right?” Isobel asks, amused, waving a hand in front of Michael's face.

“Sorry, guys,” Michael says sheepishly.

“I'm glad you're interacting with someone outside of us and Max again,” Isobel shakes her head.

“Hey, I talk to a lot of people!”

“Who, Sanders?”

“Well, yeah! And I email my supervisor. And a few other people from UNM.”

Isobel and Noah share a look, but they don't say anything. Michael shrugs it off and goes back to his phone. _Remind me who was the punk kid out of the two of us?_

_I'm certainly not the one who had sex in closets,_ Alex answers. No, Michael knows that the shed was Alex's first time. He swallows, his amusement suddenly evaporated. He sends back a single blue heart emoji, incapable of thinking of a smart comeback.

_I'll see you at music therapy tomorrow?_ Alex asks.

_Sure._

Michael tries to focus back on the conversation happening around him. “-and I'll try going round to  Otero county to check for  any psychic vibes there,” Noah is saying. “It's one of the last places I haven't checked.”

“I'd come with you, but I'll have to be at the school to prepare for the reunion,” Isobel says.

Michael frowns. “You're still looking for other aliens?” he asks Noah. “I thought you'd given up. It's been a year and a half since you felt anything, and we're not even sure−”

“I'm certain of what I felt,” Noah says. “And Iz felt it too. I know it's not a lot to go on, but I won't stop looking. If we're not the only ones who survived the crash−”

“Then we need to know, I know,” Michael nods. “And I agree. I just...I don't understand. It was so brief. Why would we suddenly feel them after seventy years and then nothing?”

Noah shakes his head. “I don't know.”

“Something must have happened that day,” Michael says.

“You've never shown any interest in it before now,” Isobel points out. “We've been looking for a year and a half.”

“I don't know,” Michael shrugs. “I guess I've been thinking about who we are recently. You know, beyond just the ship.”

He's been collecting pieces of the ship they came to Earth on since he was little, and it played more than a small part in his choice of physics and engineering as his PhD specialties. The nearly complete ship console is in the bunker under the junkyard now, hidden under the Airstream. Michael's interest in it is mostly curiosity, long removed from his childish wish to go back to their planet. Noah made it clear, when they go him out of his pod eight years ago, that there was no planet to go back to.

Maybe it's seeing Alex again, being reminded of who he was at seventeen, that rekindled Michael's concern about other alien matters.  Or maybe it's the new words his therapists wants him to try on. Autistic. Depressed. Anxious. If he is not human, can he fit into human boxes?

*

Michael slips out of the reunion after less than an hour. He slipped out after helping Isobel to get something to eat and made it back late, so he only got to glimpse Alex on the other side of the room, while Isobel drags him around to talk to people he barely remembers and pretend to be interested in their life.

T he music is too loud, and he didn't remember the lighting being this bad. His skin is crawling when he makes it to the corridor outside the gym, where at last things quiet down.  He taps his fists together repeatedly, trying to get rid of the ickiness.  His head hurts.

He sees the projector before he sees Alex. He's the one who set it up earlier, but he didn't know what Isobel wanted it for. It's projecting photos of them as teenagers, apparently. Michael doesn't know where Isobel got all those pictures, but he recognizes Alex, his hair going down to his chin, pre-emo, laughing on his skateboard.

And underneath, the real, physical Alex, his right pant leg rolled up to reveal his prosthesis, giving the photo an undecipherable look.

“Nostalgia's a bitch, uh?” Michael leans on the door frame.

Alex tenses immediately and looks up. He rolls down his pant leg, looking self-conscious. “Hello,” he signs.

“Hey,” Michael signs back at the same time as he says it. “I was wondering where you'd gone.”

Alex shrugs, and points at the floor under his feet with a small smile.

“Yeah, I got that,” Michael laughs.

Alex signs something, but Michael only catches one of the signs, that he thinks means 'people'.

“Wait, I can't follow,” he stops Alex, frustrated. “Sorry.”

Alex shakes his head, spells 'OK' and takes out his phone. “Too many people,” he writes, angling the screen so Michael can see.

“Oh. Right, yes, for me too.”

“Mind if I don't use the voice?” Alex types. “Don't like it.”

“No, of course, it's fine like that. I can't wait until I've learned enough ASL to understand you.”

Alex's eyes widen. “You're learning?”

“Just one class so far,” Michael shrugs. “It's not easy, but I like it.”

Alex mouths something, and Michael can see the emotions course through him. He closes his eyes tightly for a moment, then brings his fingers up to his chin. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Michael signs, since it's one of the words he's learned. “I'm happy to do it,” he adds vocally. “I'll need a signing partner, though.”

Alex gives him a wide smile and playfully points at himself with a raised eyebrow.

“No, not you. I'm sure Max would be thrilled to do it,” Michael deadpans.

Alex laughs silently and rolls his eyes. He signs something that Michael doesn't recognize, pointing at him.

“Is that an insult?” Michael pretends to growl.

“No,” Alex shakes his head. He types it out. “You're amazing.”

Before Michael can react to that, Alex points behind him at the projection.

Michael  turns to look at the picture. It's a group photo of about half their  science class, taken around the time Michael was crashing in the Manes' toolshed. Alex, in the most awful sweater Michael has ever seen him in,  is beside Liz and Maria, arms crossed over his chest. Michael is with Max on the other side, a vaguely twisted smile on his face, wearing Goodwill jeans and a tee-shirt full of holes. Isobel isn't there. This was around the time she had so many blackouts that she skipped classes to rest, Michael remembers. That year that was both the worse and the best of his life.

“We were so carefree and innocent,” Alex writes, lifting his phone up to Michael's face to show him.

Michael tilts his head at the picture again. “I'm not sure the two of us were ever carefree,” he says. “Let alone innocent. But we were...young.”

Alex nods.

“All these years, I thought you'd gotten far away from here,” Michael sighs. “You wanted to leave so much.”

Alex shrugs. “What I wanted doesn't matter,” he types. “I'm here.”

“You are.” Michael looks up at his face, and briefly meets his eyes. “Despite everything, I'm really glad you're here.”

It's impossible to tell which one of them initiate it, but suddenly their lips are crashing together.

It feels like coming home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter from Alex's POV, I hope you like it! I've also posted a couple of snippets of the first chapter from his POV [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828839).

“Alex!”

Alex looks around when he hears his name called somewhere through the crowd. He skims over people he can barely recognize−where there really that many people in his year in high school?−until his eyes stop on Liz, who is waving at him from across the room. He smiles at her and starts to make his way over.

He spots Maria, who is sitting at a small table and taking her fortune teller side business very seriously, and Kyle, further away, looking distinctly uncomfortable with his former football teammates. He tries to recognize more people, but the truth is that he mostly avoided everyone but his friends in high school, and only learned the faces of his bullies. A lot of them still live in Roswell, since such is the fate of many small town kids, so he's seen them around, but he has no wish to stop and talk to any of them.

Isobel Evans is a social butterfly tonight, going from one person to the next. She organized this party, so it makes sense. Alex doesn't spot either of her brothers for now−and of course, Michael is the familiar face he's unconsciously looking for. He said he'd be there.

Alex pushes through to Liz, neatly sidestepping the few people who turn toward him on the way. He's already had two awkward conversations, where people side-eyed his crutch and had no patience or understanding toward his use of AAC.

Liz opens her arms and he hugs her good-naturedly. “Hey,” he signs one-handed. “It's been a while.” He keeps his signs purposefully slow, since Liz hasn't been around enough to reach Rosa and Maria's level of familiarity with ASL.

“I know! I really meant to come back more, but it's been crazy. How are you?” Liz asks, stepping back to look at him.

Alex shrugs. “Not bad.”

The last time Liz was in Roswell, he was just out of the hospital, freshly short a limb. He's certainly doing a lot better than then. They've spoken through FaceTime and texts, but it's simply not the same.

“What about you?” he asks, shifting his weight off his crutch to free his hand. Having the cuff, even his modified one, hanging from his arm while signing isn't ideal, but he's used to it. “Are you here just for the reunion?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Liz answers. “I...my funding was dropped, so I'm trying to figure things out.”

“I'm sorry,” Alex signs before hugging her again.

“For now I'm going to help Dad at the café, his health isn't great and he gets tired. That way at least I'll feel like I'm useful.”

“I'll be glad to have you around,” Alex smiles. “Are you and Max−” he starts, spotting the man and pointing to him.

“We've been giving each other space. He doesn't know I'm here, I just made it home this morning,” Liz giggles.

“You want to give him another chance?”

Liz and Max's relationship since high school has been nothing if not complicated, with both of them studying all over the country. Max has been back in Roswell for a few years now, working as a deputy sheriff and writing semi-successful novels, but Alex has long given up on keeping track of their arguments and make-ups. The last he heard, Liz felt that Max was overbearing and Max was tired of Liz keeping him at arm's length, saying−perhaps rightfully−that he had a more consistent relationship with her father than with her.

Liz shrugs. “We're going to be in the same place for the first time in years. Why not?”

“I'm not getting involved,” Alex laughs. “Go on, go surprise him.”

“You're okay on your own?”

“Sure. Grown adult remember? Besides, Maria's around somewhere.”

Alex watches her go and steps in the direction of the buffet table. He eyes the punch and grabs himself another soda instead. He has to prop his crutch against the table to open the can and get a straw inside, and he absently notes as he puts more weight on his right leg that his stump is swelling up, and he really needs to go remove a couple of socks.

“Alex,” someone approaches him from behind. Alex turns to find Kate Long looking at him curiously.

Kate has grown a lot from the girl who used to be Rosa's dealer, and left Roswell not long after high school. She only comes back in the summers, and she seems to have become a sweet person, at the opposite of her brother Wyatt, whom Alex still regularly sees around town.

“Hey,” Alex mouths.

“How are you? I heard about what happened to you, and I didn't see you last year−” she trails off with a gesture to his crutch.

As often with people he hasn't interacted with much before, there's a moment of awkwardness. Alex eyes the crowd around them, but none of his friends are close enough to translate for him, so he takes out his phone. Kate frowns a little, but she waits.

“I'm doing much better,” he types. The voice comes out too low, because the music has somehow gone up in the last few minutes. He corrects it and taps 'read' again.

“I'm glad to hear that,” Kate says. She hesitates, biting her lip. “Uh, can I ask you about your AAC?”

Alex raises his eyebrows in surprise that she even knows the term, and nods.

“My son is almost five and he doesn't speak, so I've been looking into this,” Kate explains. “The speech therapist said it's worth a try. There seem to be a bunch of options, and I have no idea what's good or not. I know we don't really know each other, but you, uh, you're the only person I know who speaks that way.”

So she sought him out. Alex nods in understanding and thinks about it for a moment.

“I wrote my own app,” he types. “But I could walk you through the options if you want.”

“That would be great.”

Kate is already patient enough to wait until Alex is finished typing to answer. That's a point in her favor.

“We can meet somewhere next week,” Alex writes. He briefly puts his phone down on the table to take one of his professional cards out of his pocket. Kate takes it gratefully.

“Thank you,” she says. “I'll text you, is that alright?”

“Perfect. I'm mostly free on Tuesday and Wednesday.”

“Tuesday and Wednesday,” Kate repeats. “Noted. Hey, Valenti,” she adds to Kyle, who finally got away from his former football team and made a beeline for the buffet. Alex takes a sip of his soda and waves at him.

“Kate. Alex. God, these guys haven't changed at all.”

“Still jocks?” Alex signs with a smirk. He's very, very glad that Kyle changed in the years he was away. They started rekindling their childhood friendship the year after high school, when the Valentis all but took him in after he got out of the hospital and Kyle came back from college during the holidays, but Kyle only really changed his ways and the company he kept when he came back to New Mexico for med school.

“Was I really that much of a dick?” Kyle grimaces.

“Worse,” Alex replies, without missing a beat.

“Definitely,” Kate says at the same time. “But I wasn't any better.”

“He said 'worse',” Kyle points at Alex with a mock-pleading pout.

“Who am I to argue?” Kate smiles. “I think I just saw Jasmine. I haven't seen her in years, I'll try to catch up. I'll see you guys around?”

“Sure,” Kyle says.

“Were you on the Rez today?” Alex asks him when Kate has disappeared out of sight.

“Yes. Everyone's good, we're really lucky this year. Just the usual. They miss you.”

“I've been busy, but I'll head down there next weekend,” Alex answers.

“Okay. So, have you seen anyone interesting tonight? All these people who have gotten the hell away from this place.”

It's not that many people, Alex thinks. Probably less than half their year. He should have been among them. He planned for it, whether he dreamed about hightailing it to California to play music or resigned himself to enlisting like his father wanted. Funny how life has a way of pulling the rug under you.

He shakes his head. “Just Kate,” he signs, spelling her name out.

“I'm pretty sure Michael Guerin has been staring at you for a while,” Kyle points his chin across the room, where Isobel Evans is dragging Michael around. Alex stands up a bit straighter, off the table he's been leaning on. “I haven't seen him in ages, I wonder what he's become.”

“Physics PhD,” Alex answers.

Kyle raises an eyebrow. “And you know that because…?”

“I ran into him the other day. We had coffee.”

Alex's eyes briefly meet Michael's and Kyle looks between them. “Would he be the reason you were so distracted last night?” Kyle asks.

Last night. Right, Michael texted him through his evening at Michelle's. “Maybe?” Alex winces.

“Um,” Kyle mutters, reserving his opinion.

“I need to go adjust my leg,” Alex takes the opportunity to flee. He doesn't want to discuss Michael with Kyle, not yet. Not with anyone, really. No one knows how their relationship ended in high school, and as far as Alex knows, Kyle never even saw them together in the first place. They didn't exactly flaunt it in the face of the school's biggest homophobic bully.

Maybe that's why he's so uncomfortable talking with Kyle about this. However close they've become, they haven't quite crossed that bridge yet.

*

Alex doesn't know what he expected from this ten year reunion, apart from a lot of awkwardness, but kissing his high school sweetheart by the school bathroom certainly wasn't it. Not that he's complaining.

“That okay?” Michael asks softly when they both come up for air. Alex is out of breath, and however much he'd like to just continue, he starts coughing and wheezing. He gets it under control easily enough, but Michael smile has turned into a frown.

“Yes, good,” Alex signs, hoping he'll understand. Michael has started learning ASL _for him_ , after talking to him just once. That floors Alex completely. His close friends all have taken classes at one point or another, but the circumstances were different: Liz and Kyle both picked ASL as an elective in college, and earned credit with it, and Maria and Rosa learned along with Alex when he was just starting to sign. Michael learning now, when he's been out of school for years and they've only just reunited, is something else.

“I'd almost forgotten how good a kisser you are,” Michael says, leaning his forehead against Alex's once he's stopped coughing. Alex slips his hand up his neck and into his curls, savoring the softness.

“Me too,” he murmurs, only loud enough for Michael to hear.

Michael gently squeezes the back of his neck, never straying closer to his throat where Alex can barely handle his own touch.

They stay immobile, lost in each other, for a long moment.

“Where do we go from here?” Michael asks quietly, letting go of Alex's head to be able to look at him.

Alex takes out his phone and hesitates for a moment. “Do you really think we could ever be good for each other?” he types. “We have so much baggage.”

“Maybe…” Michael starts. “Maybe that's exactly why we'd be good. Because we both understand what it's like.”

Alex smiles and nods. “We'll have to take it slow.”

“I agree. I mean, I feel this kind of...magnetic pull, toward you, and it's not making it easy to take it slow, but...in different circumstances, maybe I'd be all over you already. If it was the first time we met, if we were both just−” Michael trails off with a frustrated gesture, and Alex tilts his head. He understands what Michael is saying. He feels the same pull, that incredibly strong attraction, the connection he's never had with anyone else, but he doesn't want to rush it and ruin it all. But he needs to make sure of something.

“Is it because I'm disabled?” he asks.

Michael's first obvious instinct is to deny, but he bites his lip. “Yes and no,” he says after a moment, searching for his words. “Your disabilities mean that I need to learn your boundaries and your needs, and maybe it's going to take a little longer than it would otherwise. But I was actually thinking about our history, our shared−and individual−traumas, and, you know, you've probably noticed that I'm not exactly...typical, either. I'm probably not in the best place mentally to start a relationship. And I want to thank my therapist, because a year ago I might have thought that a relationship was exactly what I needed and that would have been a disaster. But then I also thought booze was what I needed, so, you know, my coping mechanisms weren't exactly−”

Alex laughs and Michael stops short.

“What?”

“You're rambling.”

“Um, I guess I am. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” Alex signs. He switches back to typing, “I think we're on the same page.”

“So, slow?” Michael asks. “We get to know each other first?”

“Yes.”

“Can we, uh, keep kissing? Sometimes?”

Alex lets out a little silent laugh, almost a giggle. “I'm sure we can,” he writes. “As long as we're both comfortable.”

“I'm comfortable with you,” Michael murmurs.

*

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Rosa pulls Alex aside before the music therapy session the next week. They both usually get there fifteen minutes early, to pull the instruments out of the closet and arrange the chairs−the room is used for other groups during the week, and the piano is the only thing that always stays in the same place.

“Yes?” Alex puts down his guitar case against the wall.

“Now that I've got a bit of a better handle on everyone's needs, I want to ask each of them to put a project together. Just a song or a piece that they can work on over the summer, and perform for other people if they want to. It can be collaborative, and I wanted to know if you want to participate.”

“Sure,” Alex shrugs. “I mean, I can accompany anyone who wants me to.”

“I was thinking of something more,” Rosa says.

“Like what?”

“Well, you've really hit it off with Michael, right?”

“We have history,” Alex signs. “Yes, we did,” he adds when Rosa tilts her head.

“You'll have to tell me more someday, if you want to,” Rosa smiles. “Michael said that he hasn't really played any music in years, and I'm not sure he'll be able to take initiatives. He's not quite in the right mental space for that. If he doesn't have close guidance on the project, it might actually hinder him.”

“You want me to help him,” Alex understands.

“If you feel like you can. I know it's a lot to ask, but you've been working with me for a while now, you know how to do it. And you two have a connection. You could propose a song, work on it with him. An actual collaboration would be good for him.”

“I'll think about it,” Alex answers.

“It doesn't have to be asymmetrical,” Rosa adds. “You can make it something good for both of you. You know how powerful music can be.”

“We had that, before,” Alex signs slowly. “I used to sing while he played the guitar.”

Somehow the emotions coursing through him thinking about it still manage to take him by surprise, and he swallows.

Rosa's eyes widen. “Alex, _he's_ your Museum Guy?”

Alex freezes for a second, irrational fear taking over everything. It doesn't last, because he trusts Rosa, but she sees it and it's enough of an answer. Museum Guy is the nickname Maria and Liz gave Michael back in high school, when Alex wouldn't tell them who he was dating. He'd just planned to wait until he could ask Michael to meet his friends properly, but they didn't have enough time for that. Instead, his father attacked Michael and almost killed Alex, and Alex kept Michael's secret long after he was gone. In his head, it's always been too dangerous, even once Jesse was in jail.

“Hey, it's okay,” Rosa lays a hand on his arm. It takes a lot out of Alex not to flinch in an outdated reflex. Rosa's safe. He's in a safe place. His father can't hurt Michael ever again.

“Sorry,” Alex signs.

“Don't apologize. You can tell me more when you want to, but I won't ask you again, okay?”

“Thanks.”

Alex watches the beginning of the therapy session in a bit of a daze. His eyes track Michael automatically as he sits down, giving him a shy wave−they haven't seen each other since the reunion, as they agreed to go really slow and just text for a while. Rosa exposes her plan and Alex is in the perfect place to see Michael's face fall, anxiety replacing the almost relaxed posture he'd taken. It gets worse when Rosa gets to the next part.

“This is not mandatory in any way, but I would like you to try to perform your piece in front of a small audience. Once a month at the Wild Pony, the owner holds a Quiet Night. No loud music or heavy drinking allowed, open mic all night. It's always very friendly, so if you feel like you can handle that, it will be a good place to perform.”

Alex nods, trying to catch Michael's eyes to give him some reassurance. He's been on stage at the Pony hundreds of time over the years, and Quiet Nights are always nice. It's a different atmosphere than regular open mic night or karaoke, and Maria has taken Rosa and Alex's advice to heart to actually make it friendly and accessible.

“I want you to start brainstorming about it now for ten minutes, but you don't need to make any decision until two weeks from now,” Rosa says. “Alex and I can accompany you in any way you need, but you're also allowed to pair up between you if you find that you have ideas in common. The most important thing is that there's something personal and new in it, whether it's in the interpretation of the piece or the piece itself.”

As soon as Rosa stops talking, Alex grabs his chair and drags it over to Michael's side. He sits close enough to touch him, but not to impede into his vital space. “OK?” he spells out.

“I don't know,” Michael mutters, rocking slightly on his chair.

None of the others are paying attention to them, already taking out instruments or notebooks. Rosa just gives Alex a nod and goes to chat with Fiona.

“What scares you?” Alex types on his phone, showing Michael his screen.

“I don't have any ideas,” Michael murmurs. “I don't know how to do this. I'm not a musician.”

Alex hesitates. Telling Michael outright that Rosa asked him to help could make him feel even more inadequate, and that's not what he wants. But making him believe that Alex came up with it doesn't seem fair. “Maybe you don't have to do it alone,” he types.

Michael looks around at the others, who all clearly already have an idea of their own. “What do you mean?”

“I could help,” Alex answers. “That's why I'm here.”

“Yeah, but...you're here for the music, not the therapy part, right? This feels like therapy.”

“It is,” Alex smiles. “But it's also music. And I happen to write songs. Rosa thought we could pair up.”

Michael's eyes widen. “You want me to sing one of your songs?”

“I have one I'm working on right now that I think you'll like. I want you to help me finish it−” Alex holds up a hand when Michael tries to speak, to make him wait until he's finished. Michael shuts up instantly. “−and then I want _us_ to play it.”

Michael swallows and looks at him, briefly meeting his eyes. “Alex,” he hesitates. “That's−wow, that's a lot.”

Alex reaches out and deliberately places his hand on the back of Michael's, on his knee. Michael freezes briefly, then turns his hand to grab Alex's.

“I−if you want that, then−I'm not a good singer, I'm probably going to butcher it, but−okay. Yes. We can do that.”

Alex smiles. “You are a good singer,” he signs slowly with his free hand, balancing his phone on his lap. It's easy enough to understand, and Michael's eyes light up.

“Never as good as you,” Michael whispers. It's bittersweet to hear, but Alex is past the time when even thinking about singing made his heart sink with grief. He's been writing songs for other voices for years. He's made his peace with it.

“You could be,” he types on his phone.

“With your help, I could be anything,” Michael replies, light dancing in his eyes. He's flirting, but he looks like he truly believes it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been far too long, but here is it, more Alex POV and a Malex date. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> A note: in the last chapter I mistakenly said that Max was teaching at the high school, because that's what he did in an earlier draft, but he's actually still a deputy. It's been corrected.
> 
> I know just enough French Sign Language to understand how it works but I had to look up the ASL signs to describe them. Also, I'm not going on a rant about the recent straw ban. I'm not.
> 
> [mentions of abuse, PTSD, nightmares & flashbacks]

Alex wakes up panting and coughing, covered in sweat. He throws his sheet off and  lies there for a moment,  feeling like he has an anvil pressing down on his chest.  _Breathe in._ His head swims, even though he has his eyes closed.  He recognizes the numbness of shock and dissociation, the slight shake of his hands at his side, how hard it is to move.  _Breathe out. Breathe._

The nightmare was bad, this weird mix of flashback and dream that throws him deep into that dark part of his mind.  He struggles to get enough air into his lungs, his throat and his chest cavity are on fire. He's well used to the sensation, but his body never stops panicking.  _Breathe in._

He mentally goes through his list. Anchoring himself is so much harder at night, when everything is silent and dark. He's not even sure if his wheezing is from a panic attack or just his lungs' diminished capacity. He can't hear anything over the beats of his heart. The room is dark, even though he never shuts the blinds completely. He stares at the tiny dots of−not light, exactly, but not-darkness−between the blinds' blades and tries to take deep breaths. _Breathe out._

He doesn't know how long it takes him to turn on his side and grab the inhaler on his nightstand. A single puff helps immediately, which means it was more physical than psychological.  He just breathes for a while more, but the images in his head don't fade. He sighs. So this is one of  _those_ nights.

G etting out of bed seems like an impossible task, but h e knows that if he stays in bed, he'll either toss and turn anxiously until morning or fall right back into the nightmare.  He does it in steps. Open his eyes fully first, turn on the light. Get used to it. Sit up.  Another puff of his inhaler, to counteract the sudden change in blood pressure.  Grab his crutches−both of them, he's nowhere near stable enough for just one−and use them to stand up.

Alex forcibly drags himself  down the corridor to his living room.  The overhead light switches on on its own at his presence, the result of his latest deep dive into domotics. He drops on the couch, trying to blink the sleep away. He wraps himself in the fleece comforter that's usually on one of the armchairs,  crossing his legs under him,  his right on top with his stump resting in the crook of his left knee . He eyes the keyboard, but he's too exhausted to try to play music. 

His laptop is on the coffee table, so he boots it up instead. Maybe some mindless surfing will help. Unless…

On a hunch, he clicks the Skype icon. Sure enough, he has one contact online even at four am.

“Good morning,” he signs when the call goes through. It _is_ morning, after all.

The  badly-lit face on his screen splits into a wide smile and her hands start moving inside the frame.  “ Alex! How are you, son? Trouble sleeping again?”

Alex shrugs. “You know how it is. It was a hard day, and I had a nightmare. What are _you_ doing up at this hour?”

“Oh, I never sleep. I'm one of those…” she hesitates, looking for a sign she doesn’t know. “Night creatures,” she tries instead. She has as much trouble sleeping as he does, Alex knows. Or more. They've had these aimless middle-of-the-night calls more than once, trying to comfort each other.

“Bat?” he offers.

“Maybe. With wings. In the caves, upside down.”

“Yes, bats,” Alex repeats. She mimics the sign, crossing her arms over her chest with her index fingers making hooks.

“Everything okay?” Alex asks.

“Just as usual. Gregory came to repair the roof yesterday. He'll take me shopping for clothes next week.”

“Oh, maybe I could do that instead,” Alex lights up. He loves spending time with her. She's as snarky as it gets, yet one of the kindest people he knows. “I was going to drive up this weekend anyway.”

“You'll have to take that up with your brother, but I'll be happy to see you either way.”

“I'll text him in the morning,” Alex signs.

“You want to tell me about that nightmare?” Her smile is gentle and caring, illuminating her wrinkled, tired face with a soft light.

Alex sighs. “Nothing new, just  _him._ Chocking me, threatening the people I love…” It was Michael, this time. Not Michael at seventeen, the face that Alex still loved but only really remembered through  photographs , but Michael the way he is now. It makes the fear so much more real. “He's dead. I know that. But I can't seem to get rid of him.”

“He did so much harm to you, when he was supposed to love you. Of course you can't just forget.”

“He didn't just hurt me,” Alex signs.

“No, but it was more up close and personal with you than anyone else. He was your father and he raised you in violence and pain. You're allowed to be angry on your own behalf, Alex.”

Alex hugs the comforter tighter around him. It keeps slipping off as he signs, and although the night is more than warm enough to do without its heat, he feels safer, swaddled in soft, heavy cloth. “It's been ten years,” he signs. “Yesterday was the anniversary. Since he tried to kill me, the first time.” He runs a hand down his throat, almost unconsciously, and shivers when it triggers an instinctive flight response he could never get rid of.

“Oh, Alex. Of course it was a rough day.”

“Michael, the boy I was with that day,” Alex starts, using the name sign he picked for Michael years ago, even though he has rarely used it with anyone. He'll have to check if Michael has another sign for himself. “He's back in Roswell. Did I tell you that?”

She tilts her head. “No, you didn't.”

“He's been back for a few months. We ran into each other at music therapy. He's still just as beautiful. And sweet.”

“You like him,” she smiles.

“Yeah. But…” Alex pauses and swallows. “Jesse smashed his hand that day. With a hammer. He used to play the guitar. We played together.”

She closes her eyes, briefly. “There's no end to the harm this man has done, is there?” she signs sadly.

“Every time I look at his hand, I just...I'm the reason he ended up in my father's path. It would never have happened if I hadn't brought him home.”

“Alex,” she signs and says it out loud at the same time, as if to make sure she has his full attention. “What your father chose to do isn't your fault. It never was.”

“I know.” Alex sighs softly. “Why do I still feel guilty?”

“Because good people are the ones who are left to mop up the mess.”

Alex gives her a sad smile, leaning back into the couch. He's less tense already, like just telling someone about it lightened the load.

“So, tell me about this Michael. What is he like?”

“Well, he's a really good kisser,” Alex smirks. “He's amazing. He decided to start learning ASL after we talked _one time_. He's smart and kind and really hot. I feel safe with him.”

“I like him already,” she smiles.

*

_How do you feel about the drive-in?_ Michael text s him  later that day out of the blue.

A lex is sitting in front of his computer, frustrated that the bit of code he just wrote won't work whatever he does, and he welcomes the distraction.  He's been  scatterbrained all morning, running on too little sleep and too many drugs.

_Good memories, but I haven't been in years,_ he answers, amused. _Mimi DeLuca used to drive us there every week in the summer._

_ W ant to go together this weekend? _

Alex pauses.  _A date?_ he asks. It's been just over two weeks since the reunion and while he and Michael have grabbed lunch together at the Crashdown twice, they haven't been  _dates._ They agreed on that, just casual friendly lunches, no strings attached. It's the best for both of them right now. Is Michael ready to take it a step forward?

_ M aybe? _ Michael answers, and Alex snorts.

That's a yes, then. Is Alex ready? He takes a minute to breathe and actually ask himself that, even though he knows Michael is probably anxiously waiting for his answer. They've been getting along well, building a new friendship without shying away from their traumatic history. A date doesn't have to be anything too different, right?

_Casual, no pressure date sound good to you?_ he asks. He frowns at his formulation immediately afterwards, hoping Michael will get it. It's not about being exclusive, or calling each other boyfriends, or even really about being out in public. They need to take a few more steps before any of those even come into play. Besides, Alex has no intention of seeing anyone else, and he knows that neither does Michael.

_ P retty much what I was thinking, _ Michael answers, and Alex lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It triggers a coughing fit, of course, so he has to get it under control before he can think about keeping the conversation going.

_ Any idea what the movie is? _ he asks. 

_Isobel is the organizer, so yes. You'll see, it's a good one._

Alex doesn't care if it's a hundredth rerun of E.T., as long as he's with Michael, and that should tell him everything he needs to know about how attached he already is.

_ Pick me up?  _ he sends.  _ Your truck has a bed. _

_ Would you mind  going a little early ? Isobel will need me to install the projector. _

_What time does it start?_

_8 p.m,_ Michael answers immediately _. I'd need to be there around 7, maybe._

_I'll bring beers,_ Alex types. 

He hasn't felt this excited about going anywhere in a while, he realizes. He's become a bit of a hermit,  since  not being able to walk ma de it much harder to move around. He's only just getting to the point where he can comfortably wear the prosthetic for several hours every day  and he's down to just the one crutch, but he still has a hard time getting out of his comfort zone−the Crashdown, the Pony on music nights, the hospital, and the reservation whenever he's confident that his body can handle the four-hour drive.

He wasn't particularly out-going before the accident, but he used to spend nights out with Maria, Rosa or Kyle, and that's something that he misses. His cocktail of meds mean that he tends to fade fast in the evening s , even when his leg doesn't require  extra attention. He'll have to be careful on Saturday, but he figures that he can ask Michael to come back to his place after the movie.

It's something else that's new, with Michael. Alex isn't sure what led him to be so open about his disabilities with him from the first  day , whether it's their history or just that Michael is the first person he's gotten close to since losing his leg, or simply that Michael seems to take everything in stride and understand his limitations better than any abled guy Alex has dated.

As it gets closer to Saturday, Alex starts fretting about the date. He hasn't been on a date in two years, what if he doesn't know what to say? What if his leg gives him trouble, or if whatever vendor they get dinner from doesn't have straws−he'll need to pack straws−or…

“Breathe, Alex, it's going to be fine,” Maria laughs when he opens up about it on Friday evening at the Pony. “You never forget straws, anyways.”

Alex looks down at his drink, where his plastic straw is peeking out. Maria keeps them for him in a pot on the counter, but it's true that he always has some with him. “How should I dress?” he signs.

“You basically look great in anything,” Liz says from the next bar stool. Maria is working, but the bar isn't crowded yet, so they're catching up with her waiting for Rosa to arrive.

“That's not helpful,” Alex frowns. “But thanks, I guess.”

“How do you feel with him?” Maria asks. “More teenage emo or responsible adult?”

Alex shakes his head in disgust. “N either. I mean, he's embraced the cowboy aesthetic, even though he hasn't actually been a cowboy in years. Emo wouldn't be cute.”

“Emo's always cute,” Liz rules with a swipe of her hand.

“It's not really who I am anymore,” Alex answers.

“Then just go as you are. It's the drive-in, not some fancy restaurant. Button-up and jeans is fine.”

“Right. Sorry, I'm just nervous.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Liz laughs.

“You're hopeful,” Maria says suddenly, tilting her head to look at him. “I haven't seen you look like this since high school.”

“I've dated before,” Alex signs, mocking offense.

Maria shakes her head. “It's different. He's special, isn't he?”

Alex averts his eyes and nods.

“Wait, he's the same guy? Museum Guy?”

Alex is almost surprised that Rosa hasn't told her, but of course she wouldn't just out Michael, even to her girlfriend.

“The guy you kissed just before−” Liz starts. She doesn't seem to know how to end her question.

“Yes,” Alex confirms.

“So we must know him,” Maria says. “Do you want to tell us?”

Alex bites his lip. He and Michael have talked about it a little, how public they want to be about dating. Michael seems fairly confident about being out, but he's also confessed that he's never really dated another man. Alex still feels that irrational fear, even now that his father is dead, that Michael will be ripped away from him suddenly, but his sexual orientation is no secret in this town, and he's out to everyone who matters. He's not scared of the quiet bigots, the ones who come into the Pony on open mic night and sneer at Rosa's music.

He takes a sip of his  soda and spells out “Guerin”. Maria's eyes widen. Liz chokes on her drink.

“Max's _brother_?” she coughs.

A lex shrugs and smirks. “That’s the one.”

*

Alex lifts the pack of beers into the bed of Michael’s truck and plops down on the tailgate.

“What are we watching again?” he pulls out his phone to ask. Michael has just finished installing the projector and the sound system under Isobel’s order, and he grabs two beers out of the pack.

“Buckaroo Banzai. I can't believe you've never heard of it, Alex, it's a classic!”

“It is most certainly not a classic,” Alex types. He takes the open beer Michael is offering him and grabs a straw from his bag, ripping open the paper cover.

Michael raises his bottle to toast with him. “Come on, you're even more of a nerd than I am, you've got to watch this movie.”

Alex puts down the bottle carefully to type with both hands – it’s faster, and he needs to watch how much he drink anyway. It’s still early. “That's what I'm here for, isn't it?” he answers.

“Fair enough,” Michael grins. “I may have asked Isobel to bribe the committee into choosing something fun for once. Got tired of the endless Mars Attack and The Faculty reruns.”

“You don't like those?” Alex asks.

Michael shrugs. “Hate how they end.”

A lex stiffens when he  turns back to the little stage and  sees a group of men in uniform standing by the large screen. They're mixed Air Force and Army, like most of the military personnel around here, since the Roswell Air Force base is only nominally Air Force and serves as shared space. Alex has known that since he was a child. Hell, he could tell the five men's ranks from here.

Michael follows his gaze. “Ah, yes, tonight's a veteran fundraiser, so there's going to be some of them around,” he says. “ Is that okay? I didn't think−”

Alex nods stiffly. “Just took me by surprise,” he writes, but he's slow and distracted, and even Michael can see it.

“If you don't want to−” he starts, but Alex lets out a breath. A sixth man has just joined the group, and it's Flint. Which means that none of the older enlisted Airmen were his father's friends. Flint has taken great pains to put as much distance between him and Jesse Manes' legacy as possible.

“It's okay,” Alex types quickly. If Flint is here, it's as safe as it's going to get. He passes by Airmen all the time, at the Pony or the Crashdown or Walmart or the hospital. He clocks them easily, even out of uniform. But a part of him still freezes in terror, every time, still remembers the rough texture of the fatigues' cuffs on his throat, the camo patterns towering over him as he cowered on the floor. Jesse Manes never drew blood with his uniform on, but he didn't hesitate to use it to terrify his sons.

A lex still wonders if he would have become the same type of man, had that day never happened. If he'd have enlisted and eventually forgotten all he swore to himself he'd never be.

Michael is still looking at him with concern, so Alex takes it a step further. He catches Flint's eyes and waves him over.

“What are you doing?” Michael asks−a little too quietly, and Alex realizes that he probably should have asked first.

“You remember Flint?” he writes.

“Sort of. I don't think I ever spoke to him.”

“He's okay,” Alex promises. “Turned out good.”

“Okay,” Michael breathes.

“Alex, I didn't think you'd be here,” Flint greets him.

“Hey,” Alex smiles. “I'm here with Michael,” he signs, spelling Michael's name out as he points at him.

Flint extends a hand, introducing himself, and Michael hesitates only briefly before he shakes it. “You were in Alex's year in school, right?” Flint asks casually.

“Yeah,” Michael confirms.

Flint doesn't ask if they're on a date, though Alex can feel him wondering.  He's always been more awkward than Greg about Alex's sexuality, but Alex knows he doesn't truly have any issue with it, that his discomfort is just the lingering of their father's abuse. Being made to watch Jesse beat Alex up affected Flint in ways it never did Greg or Clay. Where Clay grew up very much in their father's image, never doubting he was in the right, and Greg was content to conform only to the extent it kept Jesse off his back, Flint was always torn in his love for each member of the family.

After a pause, t he conversation ends on  an awkward note, as Flint is flagged  down by one of his men and called away. Alex sits back on the tailgate, sipping his beer. He feels the two feet of space that lie between him and Michael in his bones, far more than he even has on a date. He wants to bridge that gap, even though doing it in full view of this small-minded town isn’t the best idea. They’ll have the cover of the dark, later, of everyone being absorbed in the movie.  As it stands, he scoots back to get more comfortable and Michael moves at the same time, bringing their elbows just inches of each other. 

Night has fallen completely by the time the movie ends. Ale x has gone to grab them takeout from the food truck and they’re each  holding a greasy taco, which makes it impossible for Alex to talk. He lets Michael ramble on about the movie, content to listen.

“...and my roommate in my freshman year was a movie buff, he’s the one who introduced me to most of the classics,” Michael keeps going, barely pausing to breathe. “Max has a projector, so I’d come back on break and show them to Max and Isobel. Only the good ones, though. Max hates Buckaroo Banzai, he says it’s too unhinged. Which is totally unfair from someone who loves Russian literature.”

Alex smiles along, nodding.

“Sorry, I’m rambling,” Michael sobers up.

“No, I like to learn about you,” Alex slowly signs one-handed around his food. It takes a couple of repeats for Michael to understand, but he figures it out. He smiles proudly when he does, like it’s the best thing in the world – and, Alex decides, Michael’s smile is the best thing in the world.

“Aren’t Max and Liz–” Alex starts to sign, but he quickly realizes that he’s lost Michael before he’s even asked his question. He puts down the rest of his taco and wipes his fingers on a paper towel before grabbing his phone. “Aren’t Max and Liz here tonight?”

Michael smirks. “Well, I couldn’t know that when I asked Isobel for this movie, could I?”

Alex laughs.

“That sign, that was for Liz?” Michael asks. “You spelled out ‘Max’, right?”

“Yes,” Alex repeats Liz’s name sign, based on the sign for ‘microscope’.

“What your sign?”

Alex mimics a nose ring, made with the hand shape for A. Michael smiles widely. “The septum piercing?”

“It stuck,” Alex types. He hasn’t worn a nose ring in years, but Rosa gave him this sign back when they were learning ASL together, and it stayed with him. Not many people use it, anyway, since most of his friends are speakers.

“Should I have a sign?” Michael asks.

Alex bites his lip bashfully and types, “I have one for you.”  He uses both hands to trace the top half of a square in front of him.

“What does it mean?”

Alex blushes. “It’s play on the sign for ‘museum’,” he admits.

Michael frowns. “Why?”

“When I first learned ASL, I wanted to be able to talk about you without outing you,” Alex explains. “Maria had already dubbed you Museum Guy because I told her about our first kiss. It was that or Alien Guy.”

Michael’s eyes widen, and he lets out a chocked laugh. “You named me after ou r first kiss?” he asks in a low voice, once he’s recovered.

Alex avoids his gaze and focuses on his keyboard. “We can find you another name if you prefer,” he types out. He looks up at Michael’s curls and offers a sign, an M mixed with the sign for ‘curly’.

“No, I like it,” Michael smiles. He clumsily imitates Alex’s first sign. “It’s nice. Museum Guy. It’s a good memory. I can have a name based on one of the best days of my life.”

Alex almost tears up at how heartfelt his words are. He leans over, bumping their shoulders and resting their heads together. “ It’s a really good memory for me too,” he signs. It doesn’t matter if Michael doesn’t catch all of it, he clearly gets the sentiment.

“I’m glad that we get to make new ones now,” he murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my day! I'm also on [Tumblr](https://emma-arthur.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat.


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